


What Was Will Be

by Argyle



Category: Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter (2012)
Genre: Canon - Movie, M/M, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-17
Updated: 2014-10-17
Packaged: 2018-02-21 13:40:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2470268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Argyle/pseuds/Argyle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With a pendulum's regularity, Henry trains a hunter every few decades, and with each he is possessed of no uncertain doubt that this is the one who will bring him peace.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Was Will Be

The thing is -- the whole grotesque truth of the matter is that this has all happened before.

With a pendulum's regularity, Henry trains a hunter every few decades, and with each he is possessed of no uncertain doubt that _this_ is the one who will bring him peace.

First: a seed. A vessel to contain Henry's will, a lad with a soul as malleable as raw firmament. Over weeks and months, Henry sharpens this new disciple's senses; hones his martial ability; styles rage into wild, wondrous purpose, and sharpens obsession to a lethal edge.

Henry takes what he wants. Then he replaces it with what's needed.

For a time, sometimes for years, this new hunter he has set upon the world fights with a force not yet reckoned. Henry pens the list and dozens of vampires fall. And then one day, the hunter comes upon Adam, or Adam finally takes an interest in the hunter, and of course Henry knows, doesn't he? Just as Adam does. Which is to say, it will come to an end, one way or the other.

Obviously, the fault is Henry's. It always comes down to Henry's own failings. If he'd expended every effort to train the hunter, or was a better mentor to him, he knows—

He knows that if he'd only tried _harder_ —

But Adam is so very strong. He kills the hunter, slings him up and drains him and leaves the corpse where Henry will find it; or the hunter is made anew once more, turned into a vampire of Adam's design, reeducated and set loose to mock Henry on his own ground.

After, Adam is never far behind. "I'm starting to think you enjoy it," he once said. It was after Henry lost Samuel, his third pupil, more than a century ago. Henry was holed up in a tavern, drowning his sorrow, nursing his pride along with his third whiskey when he heard that damnable chuckle rise up from behind him. Slowly, intimately, Adam set his hands down on Henry's shoulders and squeezed, and then leaned in to murmur, "They're improving, I must admit, but you can't mean to tell me you expect they'll succeed."

"You aren't invincible, Adam," Henry grit out. "It's only a question of time."

"Time?" The word hit Henry's ear in a puff of cool breath. Now Adam was laughing in earnest, his whole frame shaking with it, arrogant and cruel. "For millennia, I have known nothing but time. And I must say, she's been a remarkably obliging mistress. Tell me, Henry. Do you have a set of silver nails set aside to seal the coffin over your dear old Papa? _Tell_ me: can you imagine that in the end, your darling protégé pissed himself? Surely you appreciate what terror does to the taste of a man's blood."

Henry tried to stand, pushing against the table to free himself from Adam's hold.

"Calm down," Adam ordered. "I know how much you enjoy causing scenes, but I'd like for you to listen to me. If you mean to continue this-- _pageantry_ of sending babes to wield your blade, you must be prepared to face the consequences. Which is this: I will make them suffer."

That night, though Henry let Adam walk away unchallenged, he vowed to redouble his efforts to have his revenge. Simply, for there was no other option, he would train the ultimate hunter. Over the years, he observed soldiers, roughshod and fierce. Bounty hunters, brawlers. Men of untapped agility, ferocity, and force.

And now at last, a boy. Sloppy, overeager, and only possessed of a smattered patchwork of skills. Simply: Abe. He gets the stuffing scared out of him and comes very close to having his spine excised by Jack Barts, and what he lacks in finesse he certainly makes up for in impudence – not to be confused with courage.

Yet Henry reckons there's almost a purpose to it. He recognizes something of himself, or the foolish child he once was, and is immediately chagrined—and provoked. And so he takes a chance.

It's a rash decision, he knows. Barts is one of Adam's favorite playthings, and so by thwarting him, Henry is tempting Adam's wrath. But he sends Barts flying and drags the unconscious Abraham Lincoln home with him. He tends to the worst of the boy's wounds with neat bandages and balms, cursing himself and doubting his own sanity all the while. Abe is far enough from death, but broken ribs take a while to heal – surely delaying any training they may embark on.

No, perhaps _doubting_ is too generous a word. There's an oafish, bedraggled, and oddly alluring young man in his bed, and yes, Henry's gone mad, simply mad— now observed from the unforgiving vantage of his own bedroom, what an astonishment it is to think he might involve himself in Abe's misfortune at all.

Less reluctantly than he'd like, he eyes Abe's lean limbs; tries and fails to ignore the warmth of him, the steady thump of his heart and the deep, sanguine scent of his spilled blood. 

Then: mercy and wondrous distraction as Gabrielle comes knocking. One benefit of Henry's years is that he's acquired a knack for befriending whores who have few scruples concerning house calls… and occasional bite marks. 

*

Abe has an enormous appetite.

Not for food, mind – though Henry must regularly remind himself to keep the larder full – but for stories and letters and words, tales of vampires long ago destroyed, and hints of those still walking.

And for fictions as well. Hell, but the boy all but stands dumbfounded when he first sees Henry's library. For five whole minutes he paces back and forth, inspecting the spines and running his fingertips over the imprinted titles with the sort of reverence one usually reserves for religious artifacts – or bottles of one hundred year-old scotch.

Henry waits in the doorway. He watches.

Abraham reaches for a thick volume bound in rich, green leather. Henry knows it well.

"Ah. Are you fond of Shakespeare, Abraham?"

Abe frowns down at the book, palms the cover, and opens to a wisp-thin page at random. For a moment, he reads. Then he looks up at Henry. "I don't know," he says, abashedly. "But it seems like a good place to start."

Henry nods once, surprised but well pleased.

*

"How do you know so much about vampires?" Abe asks, almost idly, as he moves the axe back and forth in his hands.

They're sat side by side on a freshly felled tree, taking a moment to rest. So deep in the woods, the intense rays of the midday sun are diminished and filtered, easing the stress on Henry's sensitive skin. But as he glances over the rims of his shades to catch Abe's eye, the brightness is still enough to make him flinch.

Abe misinterprets the movement and hands over the pouch of tough, salted meat he'd carried along for his lunch.

"Thank you," Henry says, bemused by the offer even as he turns it away. Sooner or later, all of his past pupils recognized the truth of his nature. He wonders if Abe still hasn't because of Henry's expertise at hiding it, or if it comes down to Abe's stubborn refusal to believe that such a creature could be an ally. Or even a friend.

He doesn't know what it would mean to be accepted for the qualities of his person that he hopes transcend the horrors of his kind, but he longs to find out. A reckless streak in him demands confession, to hell with everything else. 

But again, he knows out of instinct that Abe will judge him harshly. And so he evades: "Vampires are simply a topic of personal interest."

The axe swings to rest in Abe's powerful grip. He smiles, shaking his head. "Interest? Henry, forgive me for saying so, but if you suffer from _interest_ , I would be astonished to know what obsession looks like."

*

It took years for Henry to become accustomed to his vampiric powers. After he was turned, he spent the better part of a decade in desperate isolation, hiding away out of necessity during the day – and out of melancholic dread most nights.

He had a meager collection of belongings. Things he salvaged from the home he'd shared with Edeva, a few sets of clothes, a kettle, a shaving kit, a pistol – and a modest stack of books. These he would come to prize above all. In the long, lonely hours, he retreated inward, appeasing his mind just as his body ached with hunger, every fiber of him overstimulated and hyperaware.

At night, when his senses were strongest, Henry could hear the beating hearts of men.

And not only—he perceived them, very nearly _tasted_ them, over great distances. The creek that ran behind his ramshackle cabin fed into a navigable river more than a mile away, and when the wind was right he recognized the din of passing boats, and smelled the sweat and grime and, above all, the perfume of living blood.

The temptation was maddening. He found himself all but lost to it, traitorous fangs descending as his brain buzzed with need. But by some unknown provenance he gathered his wits and waited, steadied, to capture and drink the blood of animals. Birds and rodents. And deer, when he could find them.

It was never enough; it had to do.

Then, one predawn morning, a couple of vandals ran through the open woods, on the lam but off their course. They stumbled upon the cabin, and Henry himself, asleep. One tried to grab Henry by the shoulders while the other raised a bludgeon to brain him.

Weakened as he was, he took them down easily. He drank of them easily.

It was intoxicating. He gasped, reeling; every inch of him was covered in gore – and he had well and truly never thought with such precision, or moved with such quickness, or felt so strong, until that moment.

The fact was this: he felt strong enough to strike back.

*

They've been sparring for hours, hand-to-hand at first and then with light blades. Abe is naked to the waist, sweating, panting. Bleeding lightly where Henry has here and there nicked him. He'll need to be quicker if he's to face Adam, but he's begun to take advantage of the terrain, and dodges between trees and up and down the creek's narrow embankment to gain ground and briefly – but remarkably – catch Henry off guard.

Henry swings about and manages to get an arm round Abe's throat, but then Abe pivots and lands his elbow in Henry's gut.

If Henry had any wind in him, the blow might've knocked it out.

As it is, the weight of it causes him to lose his footing. He lands, sprawled on his back, and Abe comes down hard on his middle, a knee planted to each side as his quick hands move up to pin Henry's wrists.

Abe grins wildly, invigorated. "Do you yield?"

The brightness of the day is pinkening to dusk, though there's still enough warm light to halo Abe's sweat-curled hair and cast his skin in gold. It would be so easy for Henry to simply _have_ him. But then, his lip is split, the flesh about his right eye is turning blue-black, and there's mud caked to one ear, all the result of a particularly brutal tangle in the brush… A relic of the frescos, some avenging angel, he is not. 

And yet— And yet Abe's eyes are full of humor and intelligence, and he's breathing heavily, exhausted with the day's exertion but still ready to put up a fight.

Henry's whole heart goes out to him, again, once more. 

What else can be said? Yes, he yields.

*

Henry takes a life once every two weeks—

Or more regularly when an opportunity presents itself. The regular infusion of human blood helps to maintain his reflexes, his intellect, and his appearance. It also ensures his victim, so often of the brutish, well-muscled, and wholly criminal persuasion, won't stand a chance of overpowering him.

Even so, Henry's flesh will never maintain the same warmth as a living man's. Hours after feeding, the heat begins to dissipate through his body, and his hands are cold a few days later.

In his travels, he's found ways of diminishing the threat of public exposure. It requires care. He has grown to accept the ritual of readying himself. Each morning, he lays out his clothes and he dresses, taking note of order and placement and fit— every detail is attuned, each frippery is aligned to better stave off the howling chaos of his true nature.

Which isn't to say he doesn't take pleasure in feeding. There are far too many parts of him which are occupied with little else.

And so even as Henry continues to do everything in his power to make sure Abraham remains oblivious to the fact that his mentor is a vampire, Henry undoubtedly _must_ feed in order to keep his head.

Doubly, the more recently he has fed, the less he can wear during their training sessions, and the closer he can get to Abraham.

*

It is perhaps the only bottle of Château Lafite within five hundred miles – and it is certainly the rarest vintage within a thousand. Henry's held onto it for decades, carried it between homes, all the way back to the cold night in 1779 when he'd drained a rich widower and taken it for his own.

Henry knows that Abe has no head for wine. And nor does Abe have anything resembling a refined pallet.

But in two days' time, Abe will be gone from Henry's home, and despite all his pomp and assurance to the contrary, Henry is already fretting over the loss of Abe's company. Evening after evening, he has found himself lingering in Abe's room so they might extend their drowsy, lamp-lit conversations. Come morning, he pours steaming mugs of tea and sets the newspaper on the table, halfway hoping they'll sit a while; but Abe downs the tea and only scans the paper for telling headlines – BLOODLESS BODY FOUND IN RIVER; TOWNSFOLK SUFFER PECULIAR PLAGUE – just as Henry has taught him.

It is all wrong. Henry only took Abe on as a pupil so that he could one day send him away again. He took him on to defeat Adam. It's the culmination of three months' worth of training and study: naturally, certainly, Abe leaving is reason for celebration— And so Henry decanters his best wine and pours two glasses to brimming, and they sit and talk and observe the shadows, and for a time, they enjoy each other's company.

If Abe notices Henry's hand lingering on his arm a beat or two longer than usual, he makes no mention of it. And nor does Henry point out the delicious flush that rises in Abe's cheeks when the first glass has made way for the second and third.

*

In the end, Henry is prepared to leave it go at a handshake. They're standing in the entryway, Abe with a bundle of assorted tools and weaponry slung from one shoulder, and Henry gritting out a final slew of orders. He cannot afford to lose his resolve, so anger clouds over the worry. "You will do as I say, Abraham. Only approach the vampires who I have named – and on no condition attempt to make contact with Jack Barts. Not yet."

Abe's mouth straightens. "You don't think I'm ready? After everything you've taught me— everything I've learned?" 

"On the contrary," says Henry. He looks into that clear gaze, and not for the first time, a pang of dread spikes through his chest. "I only ask that you give it time."

"And what if I come upon others? Vampires not on your _list_."

"Have care."

"Care." Abe seems to mull over this for a moment. Then his features soften and in a swift movement he wraps his arms round Henry's back. "You saved my life, Henry. I don't know how I'll ever repay you."

Henry huffs out a laugh. "Stay alive," he says. And then: "To see you through to old age will be payment enough."

He watches Abe lift himself into his saddle; he waits until the dust kicked up by the horse's hooves has settled; and in a fortnight, maybe two, he will mar a crisp sheet of parchment with his steady scrawl—

_Dearest Abraham—_

_I hope this letter finds you in fine spirits…_

—and more familiarity than he cares to name.

**Author's Note:**

> This is an older fic that I decided to dust off and post here-- you may notice that several sections were previously poached and modified to suit my longfic "And yet shall mourn with ever-returning spring." More of that one soon, I promise!


End file.
